Evadne
by Roses for Ophelia
Summary: The bare bosom of the nymph Evadne would have left him unmoved.' Enjolras and women don't mix, but his friends won't accept that.
1. Chapter 1

Enjolras was never late for an official meeting. Late for classes, for social engagements, late writing his letters home, late in returning books he had borrowed, but never late for official meetings of the Societé des Amis de l'ABC. So, naturally, Combeferre was worried. Not only was it not like him to be late, with the way things were heating up since July, Enjolras being late could point not only to a commonplace mugging or accident, but to a capture by the police. The other Amis seemed to notice as well. Even Courfeyrac was slightly quiet.

"If he's not here soon," Bossuet suggested, " Joly and I will go out looking for him."

" If he's not here soon," Combeferre amended, " We are all to return home, lay low, and take any sensitive information with us. If he was arrested, there's no telling what he has on him, and we do not want to lead the police right to our center of operations."

" Honestly, Combeferre," Courfeyrac put in, determined to be the only one who was not troubled, though, to be honest, he was not fooling anyone. " Just because he's late it doesn't mean he's been arrested. Not everything is a crisis—"

" And not everything is to be dismissed as nothing!" Combeferre fired back . The argument might have escalated if Enjolras had not entered the café, slamming the door behind him with a look that reminded one of a cornered beast.

" Enjolras! Are you all right!" Combeferre was the first to address him, though everyone fell silent at his odd entrance. At first, their leader did not speak. " Are you well?" Combeferre repeated. "Did you run into some sort of trouble? The police—?" Enjolras finally seemed to realize where he was, and who was talking to him. Although the fearful look did not leave his eyes, he managed to shake his head.

" I'm fine." He said.

" Are you certain?" Combeferre asked. Enjolras swallowed nervously, then his eyes closed, and he nodded once more.

" I'm perfectly all right." His usual calm had returned. " Where is Bahorel?"

_Back to business-as-usual, can't the man give me a straight answer before he retreats into work, and I don't see him again? _Combeferre thought, with unusual testiness toward Enjolras' single-mindedness. He knew when something was wrong.

" Our ambassador has gone on a diplomatic mission to the Society of the Rights of Man." Jehan explained. " Though, if you ask me, they aren't worth cultivating."

" We'll leave that to Bahorel to decide. There are many groups rising up—some are more serious than others. I trust Bahorel to know the difference." Enjolras replied, sitting down. He was all business now, any trace of his unexplained fear was gone, but Combeferre was not fooled. He was uncharacteristically quiet for the rest of the meeting, watching Enjolras, and privately planning to corner him later.

Combeferre spotted his opportunity just as the meeting was winding down. There was a certain sound in the room that Combeferre often noticed, which was not entirely unlike the sound an audience makes just as they are beginning to lose interest in a play. It was a silent sound, and thus, difficult to grasp, but just as real, and it could always be heard in the Café Musain just moments before someone realized they had said the same thing three times, were not reaching any conclusions and nothing further could be done that day. There were a few moments between the sound, and someone's declaration of ' I think the meeting has concluded itself, don't you?' wherein Enjolras, without fail, would try to squeeze a few more minutes of focus out of them but once the sound was heard, there would be nothing more done that day.

This time, as soon as the sound—which was quite similar to the sound journalists make when a politician is lying through his teeth—was heard, Combeferre quietly switched chairs with Joly, and sat by Enjolras' side.

" Are you going to tell me what happened earlier?" he asked quietly. Enjolras was in his desperation phase. He never liked to admit that they had been going round in circles, doing nothing, but that was what they were doing.

" Happened earlier? Nothing at all." Enjolras replied. He had heard the sound as well.

" Something happened. You came in here looking like you had been chased."

" It was nothing."

" Enjolras! Tell me. If it was a political matter, I have the right to know as your lieutenant, and if it is a personal matter, I have the right to know as your friend. Now please, tell me what happened earlier." Enjolras sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. Suddenly Combeferre understood.

" It was another girl, wasn't it?"


	2. Chapter 2

" Women aren't poisonous snakes, you know." Combeferre said as he poured two glasses of white wine. Enjolras only shook his head and mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like ' That's what you think.' " They are not. You don't have to be afraid of them. I don't believe, in the history of civilization, anyone was ever killed from exchanging a few words with a woman." Enjolras mumbled again. " No, don't say 'Samson.'" Combeferre scolded. Enjolras laid his head down on the table and mumbled once more. " Or 'Adam.' You and I both know that doesn't count."

Enjolras lifted his head off the table, staring pleadingly at his friend. Combeferre could easily see why his friend attracted so much female attention. The beautiful blue eyes, slim figure, long, untidy blond hair and chiseled features were enough to attract any woman who was not intimidated by them.

" It really wouldn't hurt you," Combeferre continued casually, " To find yourself a mistress—no, don't say ' you haven't the time.' You've just as much time as the rest of us. No one's suggesting that you go the Courfeyrac route and juggle two or three at once, or the Marius route and lose your senses over one, but it might be good for you to at least _speak_ to the opposite sex." Enjolras mumbled something that sounded like ' What you don't know can't harm you' and put his head back down on the table.

" Honestly, Enjolras. You take such pains to make sure you are fearless in the face of danger, and yet you are afraid of—"

" I'm not afraid of them!" Enjolras said, his first recognizable speech.

" Aren't you?" Combeferre said, " You came in here today like you were being chased by a wolf."

" I—I didn't mean—she was—" Enjolras gave up trying to be coherent and drained his glass in one gulp. Combeferre's eyes widened, having never seen his friend in this state.

" Are you going to tell me what happened?" Combeferre said, filling Enjolras' glass again. " Don't gulp this one. It's a rather good wine, in my opinion." Enjolras took a slow sip.

" You're right. It is." He drained the second glass. Combeferre shook his head in disapproval, but Enjolras rarely drank at all—he would not stop him the one time he did. Enjolras ran his fingers through his hair. He looked in danger of putting his head down on the table and mumbling again, so Combeferre interrupted.

" Tell me what happened with the girl. Was it another grisette?" Enjolras shook his head.

" No. Worse. One of those rich pseudo-aristocrats. The sort that travel in packs like giggling, petticoated wolves!" Combeferre shook his head to hide his smile. " There were four of them, in the Luxembourg. I saw them staring at me, but I didn't give them much thought." He grabbed the bottle of wine and filled his glass once more, this time draining only half of it. " Don't you want any?" He asked, holding the glass out to Combeferre.

" I'll pass for the moment. Go on."

" I was reading, I didn't give them a thought. But then one of them came up to me, asking for directions. I thought nothing of it, and pointed her on her way. I thought she'd go, but—" He finished his third glass of wine, " She sat down next to me, giggling behind her fan, asking me where I was from, and things like that. I tried to tell her I was busy, I was late for an engagement, I glared at her—you're right, I do do that when I'm irritated--I tried to get away, but she—she called her friends, and they all started following me." Enjolras slammed his hands on the table, looking terrified. "They wouldn't stop talking—and giggling. One even tried to put her hand in my pocket. I was outnumbered! Surrounded! So I did the only thing I could think to do—" Enjolras put his head down on the table and fell silent.

" What did you do?" Combeferre prompted.

" I retreated."

" Retreated?"

" I ran." He admitted.

" You ran—from the Luxembourg?"

" I would have kept running, too. If I hadn't noticed the turn onto the Place Saint-Michel, I might have kept going on. I could hear them laughing at me but I couldn't think of anything else but getting away." Combeferre could not resist laughing a bit under his breath as well. " What's funny?"

" Just that you are not afraid of open combat or street warfare, or jail, or execution, or death, but you are frightened of four young ladies flirting with you."

" I'm not frightened of them—"

" No, you ran from them for the change of pace." Enjolras filled his glass for a forth time, finishing the bottle. He looked up at Combeferre guiltily, who made a dismissive gesture—let him drink all he wanted. He'd be sober in the morning.

" All right, I am frightened of them. I swear, we could learn a thing or two about combat from those giggling jackals. They lull you into a false sense of security, send out one for reconnaissance, pin you in place, then they all surround you and move in for the kill!" Combeferre laughed out loud.

" I don't think they see it that way. They aren't trying to hurt you, Enjolras—they're trying to flirt with you. Any woman would. They flirt with you because you are beautiful, and they 'travel in packs' because _you_ are intimidating _them._"

" That's ridiculous. I would like nothing more than to leave them alone and let them do the same."

"But Enjolras—there's really no reason to fear them so. It's fear of the unknown, you know. You have no idea about women, so you're terribly frightened of them. If you found just _one_ sweet, pretty, clever girl, you might realize that women will neither tempt you to perdition, nor steal your strength. In fact, a woman might make you stronger." Enjolras looked at Combeferre suspiciously. When he spoke again his speech was the tiniest bit slurred.

" I haven't the time."

" You've the time. What's the real reason?"

" I—they're just—you know that—I'm—" Enjolras shook his head. " No, I don't want to discuss this. I'm tired, all of a sudden. I'm going home. We are meeting tomorrow, are we not?"

" Five o'clock, as usual. Do you want me to accompany you?" Combeferre was not sure what sort of tolerance Enjolras had for alcohol, and he did not want him getting lost, or collapsing, or having the bad luck to encounter another woman and running from her.

"I am not drunk, Combeferre. I'll see you tomorrow." He picked up his satchel, drained his glass of any remaining wine, and left.

Combeferre was left alone in the Musain, contemplating his friend. Something had to be done about him. He couldn't spend his life running from women. Not only was it ridiculous, Enjolras was irrationally afraid of being afraid of anything; he was obsessed with strength in the face of danger. Combeferre could not accept Enjolras being afraid of anything, and as evidenced by his drinking, neither could Enjolras himself.

Something had to be done. Enjolras had to face his fears, and in doing so, conquer them. Enjolras needed to find a woman.

There was only one person who could solve this problem; Combeferre thought, as he left the Musain. He had to find Courfeyrac.


	3. Chapter 3

"It's impossible," Courfeyrac pronounced when Combeferre had finished his proposal.

" So is open insurrection against the government, and that's been done." He pointed out. "So is balloon travel. So are daguerreotypes. So is--" Courfeyrac cut him off.

" Yes, yes, spare me the list." He said. Courfeyrac drummed his fingers on the table, looking thoughtful. " It will be a challenge." He pronounced. " Enjolras is notorious for not even noticing women. Was he always like this?"

" No—yes---no. Yes." He finally decided. "Though I never knew him to _run_ from them before. Back home, he simply used to be incredibly civil to them until they understood. Broke a lot of women's hearts."

" Our Enjolras; wolf in sheep's clothing." Courfeyrac grinned wickedly.

" No, that isn't what I meant. Enjolras and I met when we were eight. Before that, I had a lot of female playmates—"

" You devil!" Courfeyrac cut in.

" I'm ignoring that. There weren't any other boys my age in our town; I was relieved when Enjolras' family moved there. He used to fit right in with the little girls. Of course, when the little girls started to become bigger girls, Enjolras was slower catching on than the rest of us. When he finally did, he wanted no part of it. The adolescent awkwardness, the first romances, the awakening to desire, love, even carnal pleasures—Enjolras skipped right through all that—buried in his Rousseau, even then. So naturally, when our former playmates turned into possible mistresses and wives, Enjolras seemed to forget that they had ever been anything else. He began addressing the Sylvies and Maries we had known since childhood as 'vous' and avoiding them completely, even the ones who did not think of him as anything more than a childhood playmate and old friend. That was how he broke hearts." Courfeyrac shook his head disapprovingly.

" Why do you suppose? Some sister that died? A domineering governess? A saint of a mother no woman could replace?" Combeferre recognized Courfeyrac's widened eyes and smirk as a sign he was already inventing vast theories in his head, no doubt rehashed from some play or novel.

" Life is rarely as interesting as novels, Courfeyrac. The simplest explanation is usually the best; Enjolras does not think he has time to plot a revolution and have a mistress. Before, I used to laugh at it like the rest of you. It was just one of his quirks, and I took it for granted, like Joly's hypochondria, and Jehan's shyness and Feuilly's ability to drag Poland into every conversation. But I've never known his avoidance of women to turn into—that. To be quite honest, it disturbs me. I worry for him."

" It disturbs me as well. What sort of girls were they; did he say?"

" He said they were pseudo-aristocrats."

" That could mean anything. Did he say anything else—what they looked like, what they said?"

" He just kept comparing them to packs of wolves." Courfeyrac put his hands in his pockets thoughtfully.

" He's far gone. A sweet tempered girl is a fine thing, but so is an aggressive one. In fact, I'd think that the only type of girl Enjolras might be interested in would be the type that is brave enough to speak to him. I can't see him falling for a dainty aristocrat or a silly bourgeoise. But on the other hand," Courfeyrac continued thoughtfully, " I can't see him going for the sort of grisettes one finds at cafes, either. It will have to be something in between. Neither too wild, nor too tame. Intelligent, of course, the type that can hold a conversation on topics other than gossip and the latest fashions, and preferably with opinions of her own. Not too demanding, the sort that will not ask him where he goes all day, nor the type that will entertain delusions of marrying. And of course, she will have to be a Jacobine. Do you suppose he likes blondes or brunettes? " Courfeyrac began drumming his fingers on the table again. Combeferre had the urge to ask him what he was considering, but knew the distraction that comes from puzzling out a problem of logic when he saw it. Finally, after an eternity of considering and drumming his fingers, Courfeyrac smiled.

" I've just the girl." He pronounced triumphantly.

" Well?" Combeferre asked.

" She's a friend of a previous mistress of mine who I am still on rather good terms with. Really, I would not mind taking things up with her again." Courfeyrac looked off into the distance, smiling at some memory that Combeferre probably did not want to think about.

" But the girl?"

" Ah, yes, the girl. She's perfect. Outspoken, clever, works in a flower shop but speaks like a duchess. Say that to her, though, and she'll quote Voltaire. Pretty thing, too. Brunette, with charming dimples." Courfeyrac was lost in a reverie . He could speak about women the way some could about music or art.

" And her name?" Combeferre prompted, trying to pull his friend out of female-induced distraction.

" Oh, that. It's Charlotte."

" All right, Charlotte it is. Now, how are we to do it?" Courfeyrac grinned and began drumming his fingers on the table again, staring off into the distance. In affairs of love, Courfeyrac was an artist, and women were his medium.

"We can't bring her to the Musain—he'll suspect something." Combeferre finally said when the silence became uncomfortable.

" Of course not." Courfeyrac said, sounding slightly irritated. "With Enjolras a lighter touch must be used. He must think it is all a delicious accident, and the hand of fate and had conspired to bring him and his Charlotte together. He can suspect nothing."

" So, when are we to do it? Tomorrow?"

" Tomorrow! My dear Combeferre, you must give me a little time! I have to track down Angelique, and see if she is interested in seeing me again. Then I can inquire about Charlotte—casually of course, and drop the suggestion that I have a rather handsome friend who Charlotte might like, and would they like to come to the theater with us?"

" The theater?"

" Yes, it must be at the theater—or, better yet, an Opera." Combeferre coughed uncomfortably.

"Opera? Courfeyrac? Do you really think---Opera? Opera?" Combeferre had trouble with the Opera. The bourgeois had invaded it. Although the silly spectacles at the Opera Comique had their moments, and he would defend the rights of artists to the death, it did not mean he wanted to spend an evening attempting to sit through one. He had no quarrel with Mozart or Handel, or even Beethoven, but these latest things the Opera and Opera-Comique were churning out—

"Don't worry, Combeferre! I wasn't thinking of one of those horrible Romantic melodramas Jehan loves, where everyone dies of broken hearts and sings about it. I swear, the way those consumptives can sing! No, there's something playing at the Academie Royale de Musique I thought Enjolras would like, even if we had not cooked up this little plan. And don't say anything about foolish aristos—this really is too good to be missed. 'William Tell;' have you heard of it?" Combeferre quickly searched through his memory banks.

" Something about shooting an apple off someone's head—" was all he could recall.

" Yes, it's a little ridiculous, but it's about a working man who assassinates a tyrant, unites lovers, and starts a revolt in occupied Switzerland—just the sort of thing Enjolras might like, don't you think?" Combeferre smiled.

" Yes, that sounds like the sort of thing he'd be interested in."

"Yes, nothing like an opera to put one in the mood for Amore! Leave it all to me. I will tell you when we are ready." Combeferre nodded, but then a doubt began traveling up his spine.

"Courfeyrac, you cannot tell anyone, do you understand me? This remains a secret between us two. Enjolras told me what he did in confidence; I should not have told even you—"

" You've nothing to fear from me, Combeferre." Courfeyrac said, sounding thoroughly earnest, " I would not betray your confidence—nor Enjolras'—for anything. Enjolras will never know either of us had a hand in this; it's all going to look like a happy accident."


	4. Chapter 4

A/n- William Tell ( or Guillaume Tell. I used the English because I don't like spelling Guillaume.) opened in 1829—everyone knows the famous overture ( think of the Lone Ranger—that's it.) and the plot is pretty much as Courfeyrac described it; no more or less ridiculous than any other opera. Personally, it brings back memories of an overly ambitious high school tenor trying to hit the high note in 'o muto asil del pianto' and failing miserably.

It wound up taking five days before Courfeyrac appeared on the steps of the medical school, looking like Bonaparte returning from Austerlitz.

" I've done it." He only said.

" Done what?"

" Arranged everything. Angelique and Charlotte are going to the Opera tonight, and we are going to go as well—you, me and Enjolras. We, of course, have no interest in anything other than the new Opera, not only for its artistic merits, but to observe how the bourgeois react to the revolutionary themes. Then, just as we are settling in, I will notice a familiar face, that of Angelique. She, of course, being still smitten by me, will rush to our side, and introduce her lovely friend, Charlotte, who will immediately—and subtly—take an interest in Enjolras." It sounded simple enough. The best solution is often the simplest.

" Do you really think this will work?" Combeferre asked. Courfeyrac put his hand over his heart theatrically.

" My dear Combeferre, I would not put money on it, but if anyone can win over Enjolras, it is Charlotte Gautier."

" And is Charlotte Gautier as confident as you are?"

" I described Enjolras as best I could—she's eager. Of course, if you want to call the whole thing off—"

" No, no, of course not!"

" Call what off?" At that moment, a heavily encumbered Joly came bounding down the stairs, dropping papers as he went. Combeferre dashed to pick them up, and, his curiosity overwhelming his good sense, began idly reading what was written on them. He had passed all of Joly's courses at least a year ago, but there was no harm keeping the information fresh in one's mind.

"It's nothing, Joly. Combeferre, Enjolras and I are going to the Opera tonight." Courfeyrac said. Joly looked wistful.

" The Opera. I don't remember the last time I went to the Opera." He said. Combeferre looked up from Joly's near illegible notes on the circulatory system. " Which Opera?"

" Something new called 'William Tell.' Promises to be very good." Combeferre started shaking his head and waving his arms, trying to catch Courfeyrac's eye.

" Really? Who's the composer?"

" That Rossini fellow. The Italian." Joly looked even more wistful.

" Italian. Italian opera is the only opera worth listening to."

" Now, Joly, what about Mozart?"

" Mozart wrote _in_ Italian."

" Well, this opera is in French." Combeferre cut in, seeing where this conversation was going.

"Yes, but the composer is Italian." Courfeyrac corrected disastrously. Joly continued staring off into the distance.

" I simply must see it!" he finally exclaimed. Combeferre resisted the urge to slam his head into the steps. "Would you mind terribly if I came along with you tonight? Do you suppose I can still get a ticket?"

" You could try." Courfeyrac said.

" No!" Combeferre interrupted desperately. " The show is sold out. Courfeyrac had to call in a favor to get the tickets he got. The reviews were overwhelming. Everyone in Paris just has to see 'William Sell!'"

" 'William Tell'," Courfeyrac corrected, still oblivious, "And I heard the reviews were actually quite poor."

" Oh, I don't care," Joly said, looking himself like a love-struck tenor, " It has been so long since I've heard good music. A friend of mine knows one of the cellists at the Opera—I'm sure I could find a ticket, even on such short notice."

" Now, really, Joly, you don't have to go through such trouble—" Combeferre said, making a last attempt.

"I don't mind it at all. After all, we must make sacrifices for art! I'll see you tonight at the performance." And cheerfully, he was off; like Puck, not knowing what turmoil he had caused.

"What just happened?" Combeferre asked, Joly's forgotten notes still in his hand.

" Nothing to worry about, Combeferre. Just one more added to our party." Courfeyrac was infuriatingly casual. " It means nothing; our little plan remains the same. In fact, if Joly knows nothing about it, it contributes to the air of authenticity. After all, Enjolras knows that _you _know about his running incident, and I have a bit of a—reputation, shall we say?—for trying to find Enjolras a woman. Joly will quell his suspicions!" Combeferre looked down at the notes. That did make sense.

" But where Joly goes, Bossuet is sure to follow." He mumbled.

" Generally, I'd agree with you there, but Bossuet has no money for opera tickets; I imagine he'd stay behind in the interest of saving what little he has. And even _if_ he comes, that just further contributes to our ruse."

" Enjolras is less likely to let himself be 'distracted' if more of us are there." Combeferre argued.

"Or, perhaps, he will be more likely. Have you ever heard of the phrase 'alone in a crowd?' If we are all preoccupied with other things, and not paying attention to him, he might feel free to succumb." Combeferre looked up at the sky.

" All right, maybe. There's nothing we can do about it now, is there? I have to go home and find my best overcoat. I certainly hope you know what you're doing."


	5. Chapter 5

Enjolras, had, surprisingly not put up much of a fight about the opera. All it took were the words ' revolt in the third act,' and Enjolras was fascinated.

" Imagine," he said, " Hundreds of years later, they are writing _operas_ about revolutionaries, and the bourgeoisie who will accept the Charter as if it was Manna from heaven pack the houses to see them." This thought seemed to occupy him for at least half an hour, but he eventually agreed to go.

" It will be fascinating." He said to Combeferre as the walked to the Opera. " How will they react, these bourgeoisie and aristocrats? Will they cheer the rebels and boo the tyrants, and go home to their lives of quiet respectability? Or will they see the characters for what they truly are? And then what? Will they join our cause, and see the monarch for the tyrant he is, or will their bourgeois respectability prevail, and they will sit in silence, and bristle about 'terribly bad taste' to their friends over coffee?"

" I couldn't say." Combeferre responded, feeling like Claudius at 'The Murder of Gonzago,' though he couldn't place why.

" I imagine they'll do what bourgeoisie always do—find out what the papers are saying and repeat it." Courfeyrac put in. He was twirling his cane absentmindedly, in the best mood Combeferre had seen him in in a long time.

"But perhaps even the people of Paris can be moved by great art; Aristophanes thought so." Enjolras continued to argue.

" I hear William Tell is no Aristophanes."

The walk to the Opera seemed to take ages. Combeferre hoped Enjolras was too preoccupied with his thoughts of music moving the people of Paris to revolution to notice he was strangely silent. His conscience was killing him, and worse, he was terribly distressed by the prospect of sitting through an opera over four hours long, even if it was Italian.

Joly, still looking like a love struck tenor, met them at the steps.

" Courfeyrac, Enjolras!" he called, apparently not noticing Combeferre, who, admittedly, was hiding behind Courfeyrac and trying to blend in to the cobblestones. " I spoke to my friend who knows the cellist, and he told me the opera isn't sold out at all! I got three tickets for nearly nothing!"

"Three?" Combeferre exclaimed. Joly peered behind Courfeyrac.

" Oh, hello there, Combeferre; didn't see you. Yes, three. I invited Bossuet along; I thought you wouldn't mind. And when Musichetta heard we were going to the Opera, she had to tag along as well."

" Musichetta!" Combeferre exclaimed, suddenly feeling tremendously overheated.

" Oh, yes. You know her, don't you? Pretty thing, with the eyes of a fortune teller, loves good music, and doesn't mind politics, either! She must, else how could she put up with Bossuet and me? Speaking of Bossuet, she's over with him right now; he's seeing to getting her wrap checked. I'll go and get them!" Joly bounded off, his usual enthusiasm further underlined by an off-key rendition of something Combeferre recognized as being from 'Cosi Fan Tutti.'

"Musichetta?" Enjolras asked Courfeyrac under his breath. " Is she Joly or Bossuet's mistress?" Courfeyrac stopped twirling his cane abruptly.

" No one's sure." He returned in the same undertone. The ambiguous mistress appeared at that moment, on Bossuet's arm, singing Dorabella to Joly's Guglielemo.

" We hope you all don't mind us coming along." Bossuet pronounced, " Joly was obsessed with opera all day, and the idea seemed to spread to Musichetta as well…"

" I insisted," she pronounced. " Not that I have time to go the theater much, but this _does_ seem like something special, and Joly was waxing poetic about the Barber of Seville, so I had to hear this Rossini fellow for myself. You don't mind."

" Of course not!" Courfeyrac exclaimed, kissing Musichetta's hand, probably just to see whether Joly or Bossuet would bristle. Neither did, now involved in a conversation about Handel.

" Not at all." Enjolras replied. Combeferre was too preoccupied with the fact that someone _else_ had joined their party; worse still, a woman. Luckily, Musichetta was not making Enjolras nervous at the moment—he showed no signs of wanting to run, and had returned to his customary politeness. Perhaps this entire plan was unnecessary, and Enjolras no more needed a woman than a cavalry man needed an accordion. Perhaps the running was an isolated incident, brought on by stress from his revolutionary work, or problems at the university, and not evidence of a deep seated problem with women that needed to be remedied. It was really nothing to worry about. He was over reacting. He'd tell Courfeyrac he was calling the whole thing off, make up some excuse, get Enjolras out of there, and they could all pretend this scheme that was straight out of an Opera Buffa had never happened. Yes, that sounded like the proper plan.

" Monsieur Courfeyrac! Is that you?" Combeferre leaned against a door. It was too late. The girls had arrived. He was doomed.

" Why Angelique—or do my eyes deceive me? " Courfeyrac exclaimed, making up for what he lacked in acting ability with sheer enthusiasm. " Come here, my dear girl, it's been months since I've seen you!"

" Who are they?" Joly whispered.

_Just my worst nightmares in female form._ Combeferre thought, but what he said was "Apparently, a former mistress of Courfeyrac's."

Courfeyrac and Angelique were giving the opera singers a run for their money with loud, ostentatious displays of affection that would have made any prima donna jealous. Still, Combeferre had to admit, if he had not known of the plan himself, he would have believed them. After all, Courfeyrac was a lot of things, but 'subtle' was not one of them.

" Well, allow me to make a few introductions. Everyone, this is the charming Angelique Blanchard, and old, dear friend. And, unless I forget myself, the lovely Charlotte Gautier." Combeferre took the opportunity to study this Helen of Troy in petticoats who was supposed to be able to melt a heart of ice.

She was no beauty; small, plump, though with the charming dimples Courfeyrac had described, she hardly seemed capable of seducing anyone, nonetheless a man who had not been seen in the presence of a woman in years. Combeferre had to admit she had a sort of a charm about her, but he could probably pick ten women off the streets who had just as much. She clutched her shawl awkwardly and nodded as the men made their introductions, and just when Combeferre had written her off as a lost cause, she spoke.

" Don't I know you?" she said suddenly, fixing Enjolras with the most inquisitive gaze. Enjolras looked up. He had been distracted by something or other, and looked at Charlotte for the first time.

" I don't believe so." He said.

" She gets right to business, doesn't she?" Courfeyrac remarked behind his hand to Combeferre.

" I'm quite certain I've seen you somewhere." Charlotte continued. Enjolras titled his head and looked her over.

" I don't think so." He said, but Combeferre noticed he sounded less certain. " What did you say your name was?"

" Charlotte. And yours?" Enjolras hesitated for a moment, during which he stared off into the distance. Courfeyrac smiled triumphantly.

" He's gone already." Combeferre shushed him absently. Enjolras then said something none of them could have ever expected.

" I knew a Charlotte once." Enjolras said, looking over Mlle. Gautier's shoulder. " A most remarkable woman. I first encountered her when I was still a boy. Her memory still affects me to this day. You do look something like her." Combeferre's mouth dropped open.

" What did he just say?" he whispered to Courfeyrac. Enjolras continued.

"I apologize, Mlle. Charlotte. My name is Marcellin Enjolras." Charlotte looked shocked.

" You're Enjolras?" she said, looking quickly to Angelique and then to Courfeyrac.

"Have we met?" Enjolras returned, now looking confused himself. Charlotte fixed her shawl fussily.

" No, no, of course not. Courfeyrac mentioned you; that's all. If I may say so, you had quite the affect on me, though I know you only by hearsay. Putting a face to the name was rather—" She trailed off. Enjolras had that effect on women. They forgot words.

" Oh!" Joly suddenly exclaimed, interrupting everyone's thoughts, " We'd better get inside! It's almost time for the overture!"

Combeferre lagged behind as Joly and Bossuet led the way—still enraptured by Handel—followed by Angelique, who was trying and failing to ingratiate herself with Musichetta, who was sizing her up wordlessly the way only women could.

" What's going on here?" Combeferre whispered to Courfeyrac, " What is she doing?"

" What do you think she's doing? She's seducing Enjolras." Courfeyrac was strutting like a peacock, pleased with his plan and the world.

" She is not! Did you see the way she looked at him? Courfeyrac, she _knows_ him. She recognized him from somewhere."

" How do you know that?"

" She said as much, didn't she?"

" Honestly, Combeferre, she's trying to ingratiate herself with him. It's a common strategy. I can't _tell_ you how many times I used it to start a conversation."

" Yes, I know, I'd think that too, but you didn't see her face when she looked at him for the first time, or the way she started when she heard his name. Not to mention the fact she spoke to him _before_ anyone pointed out who he was."

" That means nothing. It could all be explained away."

"All right, on her part, perhaps, but did you see the look on Enjolras' face? He looked like he recognized her too. Especially when he heard _her_ name. And ' I knew a Charlotte once,' did you hear that?" Courfeyrac stopped his strutting. He took a long look at Enjolras and Charlotte who were, though not conversing, standing next to each other in the press of patrons trying to get through the doors.

" All right, perhaps something strange is going on here. But I told Angelique the whole plan, I'm sure she passed it on to Charlotte. If she had known Enjolras from somewhere, I'm sure one of them would have said something."

" Did you use his name? His full name? _Marcellin _Enjolras?" Courfeyrac furrowed his brow.

" I don't think I did. But Enjolras isn't a very common last name. Unless she's from the Midi somewhere, she's probably never even heard it."

" _Unless _she's from the Midi, where Enjolras is from, where they could have met—"

" We have to find out where she's from!" Courfeyrac exclaimed, " This could be wonderful, or horrible, I'm not sure which."

" What are you two up to?" a voice said. Musichetta had appeared from nowhere. "Find out where who's from?" Musichetta asked with a smile. She positioned herself between Courfeyrac and Combeferre, making it impossible for them to whisper to each other and invent a story. Perhaps Enjolras was right; women had an instinctive grasp of combat strategies, they just put them to use in the wrong ways.

"Charlotte Gautier." Courfeyrac said, obviously deciding the truth was the best strategy. Musichetta wrinkled her nose.

" Oh, her. She's not Parisienne, that's for sure, nor her little friend."

" How can you tell?" Combeferre asked.

"You can tell. I was born in Paris; after a while you begin to realize that some people give off a Parisian air, and others don't. Courfeyrac, for example, reeks of the South, even if he's been in Paris for years now. You're a little better, Combeferre; it's all that time you spend at the Sorbonne, you blend in well. Joly's horrible, though! He even gets that Midi accent sometimes, though you can tell he tries to control it."

"I don't have an accent." Combeferre muttered, slightly troubled by the fact that he sounded like a Southerner.

" No, neither of you do." Musichetta said, patting him on the arm slightly. " It's not an accent. It's just a _feel_ you get when someone isn't Parisian. I really can't explain it, but ask any other Parisian; we can tell who's moved here and who hasn't."

" So where, then, do you suppose Mlle. Gautier is from?" Musichetta studied the girl.

" She could be Southern. I really can't place where people are from that well; I can only tell whether people are Parisian or not."

"Southern." Courfeyrac repeated.

" Is there a problem?" Musichetta laughed mockingly, " Don't tell me she's a former lover of yours as well, Courfeyrac! Be careful, remember what happened to Don Giovanni!"

" No, we just suspect—" Courfeyrac began, but Combeferre cut him off with a shake of the head. " It's nothing, Musichetta, really." Musichetta looked at him askance, but she let the subject drop.

" Incidentally, Musichetta," Combeferre began, not knowing how to phrase such an awkward question, " Are you---that is, is Joly—I mean, how long—" Courfeyrac silenced him by grabbing his arm and pointing suddenly towards three figures running frantically towards the opera doors.

" Look!" he exclaimed, and Combeferre felt his heart leap into his throat. Running down the street, hands on their hats, were Jehan and Feuilly, followed by a gaudily dressed woman.

"In the name of all that is holy—why?" he mumbled to himself. " Courfeyrac, did you—" Courfeyrac held up his hands innocently.

" I swear on the grave of my sainted Aunt Eleanor, I said nothing to anyone else besides you and Joly! I didn't even know Bossuet was coming!" Combeferre began fanning himself with his hand.

" Then one of them must have told them." He said.

" I didn't know this was a secret—" Musichetta said with a sheepish smile, causing Courfeyrac and Combeferre to turn and stare at her. Musichetta began toying with the edge of one of her gloves, " I mentioned to one of my friends, Françoise, that I was going to the opera, and since she's been seeing Jehan, who I knew you all knew, I invited them both to come along." Combeferre all but fell down. "But, I didn't say a word to Feuilly and Francoise doesn't know him, honest, so I don't know how he heard!"

"Well, there's no mystery there." Combeferre said, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Poland—Greece—Italy, would you be surprised if Feuilly has a thing about Switzerland, too? I'd be surprised if he _didn't_. If he heard that the opera was about Austrian occupied Switzerland he would have found a way to come, if only to further educate himself on the history of occupied nations." Combeferre shook his head. This was not going well. Musichetta, sensing her cue to exit, gave both men a awkward smile and ran to meet her friend.

"Great. Now what?"

" Now what?" Courfeyrac exclaimed, " Combeferre, don't you think you're overacting? Everything is going fine. Charlotte has attracted Enjolras' attention, all our friends are here—"

" Precisely!" Combeferre shouted " All our friends are here, except Bahorel and Grantaire—you don't suppose they'd come?"

" Bahorel deplores silly bourgeois tragedies, and Grantaire—"

" Would follow Enjolras anywhere."

" Yes, but is not interested in theater of any kind. I think we are safe from the two of them appearing. Everything is going to be fine."

_Courfeyrac and I have a very different definition of the word 'fine'_, Combeferre thought as Jehan reached the opera steps and collapsed in a heap, right next to Combeferre.

" I am not running any more, ever again." He said, fanning himself theatrically, " It's not worth it. Hello, Combeferre, Courfeyrac, how are you?"

" Are we late?" Feuilly asked, similarly out of breath. He seemed to have borrowed someone else's overcoat and hat, most likely Jehan's, if Combeferre recognized Jehan's fashion sense. Combeferre also noticed that Feuilly had drawn his hands up into his sleeves, most likely to hide the fact that they were still stained with paint. The girl they had been running with, presumably Françoise was fussily adjusting her hair—by God, she had feathers in it. Jehan's mistress, all right. Combeferre silently wished every lock of it would fall out, since if she hadn't known Musichetta, he would not have to deal with two more of his friends, and another woman.

" Not at all, my dear Feuilly, right on time!" Courfeyrac said, completely missing the gravity of the situation, " The doors have just opened. Jehan, you look a fright!"

" We ran over when we heard! Françoise told me about it—"

" I sing at the opera-comique." Françoise announced in a voice that sounded anything but musical, " I always make sure I know what the competition is like here." Combeferre shook his head. Actresses. Leave it to Jehan to take up with an actress—worse, an opera singer.

" Yes, so she told me she was going with Musichetta, and I thought ' Musichetta? Isn't she that charming book-binder who Joly goes on about?' So I thought I'd come along too. Really, I prefer the Opera-Comique,--the Romantic sentiment has truly found its niche there--but one must expand one's horizons, sometimes!" Jehan paused to catch his breath. " Of course, when I started describing the plot of the show to Feuilly, he had to come as well. Apparently, William Tell really existed, and Feuilly seems to see something in him!"

" I see something in him…" Feuilly muttered, " He was a nationalist just as good as Saint-Just in defending his country. He single-handedly assassinated a tyrant, and refused to accept occupation of his Fatherland! I see something in him, honestly, Jehan—the man was a hero! And now the bourgeoisie are writing _operas_ about him."

"If you can call this opera." Françoise said snottily, " How can anything truly be considered opera if it doesn't have a ballet?"

" Françoise, why don't we join the others? They're going in now." Musichetta suggested, leading the opera singer away. Jehan followed his mistress, Feuilly lagging behind, looking a little out of place. Combeferre sat down on the steps and put his head in his hand.

" What did I do to deserve this?" he mumbled, " Just a little matchmaking. Everyone's done it. A night at the opera. No harm. No trouble. Maybe not strictly honest, but nothing that would lead to this. God exists, my dear Courfeyrac, and he has a sick sense of humor." Courfeyrac, apparently, did as well, because he laughed and began twirling his cane.

" It's all fine, Combeferre. Now come on, let's go join the others—we have to make sure we sit right next to Charlotte and Enjolras. The love birds might need a little push out of the nest."


	6. Chapter 6

A/N—Before you laugh, the A.B.Z. are not my own creation—I couldn't make that up! It took Ella R Schaffer to do it, in a COLOSSAL Les Mis rip off called Drama of the Ages. They're also revolutionaries, and it seems like they're trying REALLY hard to be the Amis de l'ABC, and falling rather short. Since they're contemporaries of the revolutionaries we all know and love, I couldn't resist having them make a cameo—and making them utterly ridiculous.

Combeferre felt like the walking dead. He felt like a reanimated corpse. He felt like—

"I don't see what's _wrong_ with you." Courfeyrac admonished, obviously not sharing any of Combeferre's feelings. " Everything is going to be fine." Combeferre was struck dumb. He pressed through the crowds of people packing in through the doors and up the stairs to the balcony, scarcely noticing where he was going. If he had not had the beacon of Enjolras' hair—and Mlle. Françoise' feathers—to guide him, he might have gotten lost in the crowds.

Joly and Bossuet had made a run for the best seats, succeeding in reserving most of the fifth row. They waved frantically and returned to their discussion, which had now moved on to Haydn. Musichetta had seated herself next to Joly and Françoise, who was snootily talking about how everything was better at the Opera-Comique, and Musichetta herself looked ready to throttle her. Jehan, next to her, had succeeded in getting Feuilly going on a rant about Switzerland and Jehan was staring at him, seemingly enraptured, but if Combeferre knew him, he was watching the way Feuilly's paint-stained hands moved when he was excited. Angelique was sitting almost back-to-back with Feuilly and a very distracted Courfeyrac, who had seemingly forgotten anything else existed other than Angelique, and was using every trick in his vast repertoire to seduce her, and seemed to be doing quite well.

That left only two other people; Enjolras and Charlotte. Enjolras had seated himself next to Courfeyrac, and Charlotte had sat next to him. Courfeyrac probably counted that as a victory, however small, but Combeferre realized there was no where else for her to sit. He slid into the aisle seat, hoping he did not look as nervous as he felt.

The 'love birds' were speaking to each other politely, but Charlotte showed no other signs of recognizing him, or of actively trying to seduce him. Enjolras was speaking to her—slightly. Really, Charlotte was making a few comments, and he was responding—politely, civilly, but without real interest. It was probably the most he had spoken to a woman other than Louison in months. Combeferre considered it progress.

Perhaps everything was going to turn out all right. Even if Charlotte and Enjolras did not leave the opera madly in love as Courfeyrac was convinced they would, perhaps, at least everything would go smoothly, it would just be another night at the theater, and Combeferre could swear off matchmaking forever.

Then it began.

Like anything horrible, it began simply enough. Joly and Bossuet, obviously reaching an impasse in their conversation, turned to Musichetta.

" Musichetta, my love," Bossuet began, " Didn't you once have a friend who sang in the chorus at the Opera?"

"I don't seem to recall that, Lesgle." Musichetta returned.

" Oh, you must mean me." Françoise said, fluttering her eyelashes in a way she must have thought was flirtatious, " I sing in the chorus at the Opera-Comique."

"No, I don't think it was you." Bossuet responded, "I'm certain the girl I am thinking of sang here, and I seem to recall her having a small part in 'Marriage of Figaro.'"

" It was 'Barber of Seville,' and it was at the Opera-Comique. I'm sure you mean me."

" No, no, I'm pretty sure it was not you. I don't go to the Opera-Comique."

"Why not?" Françoise bristled.

" Well…it's just awfully silly, isn't it?" Françoise did not dignify this with a response, but tapped Jehan on the shoulder.

" Jehan, my love," she announced in a voice that would probably never get her out of the chorus, "Will you switch places with me?"

" What for?" he asked.

"I just…don't want to sit here." Jehan, obviously used to his mistress' whims, got up, and traded places with her, to the vast relief of Musichetta, who did not look like she could take another moment of Françoise. Feuilly, of course, took one look at the opera singer and traded places with her again, on the pretext of finishing his discussion with Jehan, leaving Françoise next to Angelique.

Combeferre saw this and knew exactly where it was going. Françoise was pretty enough, and the only thing more insecure than a plain girl is a pretty-enough girl. Thus, she was not going to spend the entire night sitting between Feuilly, who had been staring at her contemptuously, and Angelique, who Courfeyrac had set his sights on and was not letting go. She looked around, and seemed to discover her mission for the evening. She tapped Courfeyrac on the shoulder.

"Pardon me, but would you switch seats with me? I can't see the stage and you're taller than I am." Courfeyrac gave her one of his characteristic dazzling smiles, and obliged.

Leaving Françoise next to Enjolras.

Enjolras and Charlotte had both long since fallen silent. The silence between them was incredibly natural on Enjolras' part; he had run out of things to say to her, and did not believe in speaking to someone past the point where he had anything worth saying. Enjolras never quite understood the point of small talk.

Charlotte, on the other hand, looked incredibly nervous. She had not stopped fiddling with her shawl for a moment, and every now and then, she turned to Enjolras and made some sort of comment, which he would respond to politely, but conversation seemed to be out of the question. Françoise, seeing the enemy had retreated, began moving in herself.

" Lovely night, isn't it?" she began, and Combeferre thought her voice sounded more like wailing cats every time she spoke. Enjolras started. He had not noticed the seat changes, and did not expect to see a woman next to him.

" Very nice indeed, Mademoiselle…?"

" Oh, Françoise de Colombo—well, that's the stage name, any way. It's really to one's advantage to have an Italian last name when one's an opera singer, don't you think? Gives one a certain air of…mystery, I suppose, don't you think?"

"I'm sure your real name would suffice." Enjolras said distantly.

" Oh, well if you think so." Françoise continued, "I'm just delighted to meet you M'sieur Enjolras—I heard so much about you—you are Enjolras, aren't you? I feel sure you couldn't be any one else. The way Jehan does go on about you, you'd think you were the Archangel Michael, or something like that." Enjolras smiled, but it looked more like a grimace. " He does say some strange things about you, though. Are you a law student?"

" Yes."

" Well, isn't that nice? I've got an uncle who teaches at the Sorbonne. At least, that's what he _says_ he does. You can never be too sure with him. Everyone's got an uncle like that, don't you, the sort that no one talks about during Christmas? I must have four or five of them! But then my aunts, they just keep coming back with more. Do you have family here, M'sieur Enjolras?"

"No."

"Oh, that's sad. I think everyone should have family around them, don't you think? Most of mine is in Paris, though I do have a few relations from the south. Are you Parisian, M'sieur Enjolras."

"No."

"Oh, I could hardly tell! You must have been living here for a long time, then, you don't stand out at all—how long have you been here?"

"A little over two years. I only recently moved to Paris."

"Where from?" Charlotte cut in. Enjolras started. He looked from one girl to the other.

"Cahors." He said to Charlotte. " It's a small city—you've probably never heard of it. Combeferre is from there as well."

"I've heard of it." Charlotte said, with a smile, and Combeferre wracked his brains trying to figure out what that smile meant.

Enjolras attempted to return to staring at the bare stage, but Françoise did not seem to be able to take a hint. She continued chatting at him, Enjolras continued ignoring her as much as he could without not responding, and Combeferre continued staring at Charlotte, who was staring at Enjolras.

Then, Combeferre caught movement out of the corner of his eye. Jehan had gotten up from his seat and was whispering to Bossuet, Feuilly and Joly, and from the expression on their faces and the tone of his voice, Combeferre began wondering if they were talking about something other than the opera. Just as he was considering getting up to speak to them, Feuilly beckoned him over.

"What's going on?" he asked. Jehan pointed at a group of men sitting in the first row of the balcony.

"Do you recognize them?" he asked, completely serious. Combeferre squinted. Jehan was pointing on a group of perhaps fifteen men, all dressed extremely well.

"No, I don't think so." Combeferre said, " Who are they?" Jehan blushed.

"I could be wrong—I probably am wrong—but they look like—at least, I think I recognize a few of them. I think—I could be wrong—that those men are the central members of the A.B.Z." Combeferre groaned.

"Those foolish malcontents! They're entirely useless! Didn't we send Bahorel to size them up a few months ago?"

"Exactly," Feuilly said. " Bahorel came back with the worst report I've ever heard him give. They're nothing but angry rich boys looking for someone to blame their problems on. They think revolution is just a game, the latest fashion."

"And on top of all of that, they stole our name and didn't even _realize _it's a pun!" Jehan wailed.

"Are you sure it's them?" Combeferre asked.

"I recognize the leader, Charles." Jehan said, " He's not hard to miss. He has all the subtlety of Telemonian Ajax, and not even half of the brains."

"That's harsh, Jehan," Courfeyrac said, who had just seemed to have joined the conversation, " But what are you all worried about? So, a secret society—if they can be called that—has decided to see the opera. It's the sort of opera malcontents would want to see."

"It's not so much that they're here, it's the way they're acting." Jehan looked away, " Oh, never mind, I'm being silly, I'm reading things into this that aren't there! It's nothing!" He looked on the verge of tears, as Jehan often did. Jehan had two speeds—complete, almost melancholic calm and shyness, and unrestrained passion. Any emotion he felt he took to an extreme; there was no middle ground with Jehan.

"What do you suspect, Jehan?" Combeferre asked with a sigh.

"It's nothing—I just think they're acting a little suspiciously. They're too quiet; that one won't stop looking at the doors. The other is checking his watch every few seconds, and the leader, Charles, seems jumpy. I wouldn't have noticed, but those wretched A.B.Z. have a bit of a reputation for shooting first and asking questions later. They've caused trouble in the streets more than once. I don't trust them."

" Jehan thinks they might be planning something." Feuilly completed, getting to the point Jehan never seemed to get to.

"What sort of something?" Combeferre asked, studying the men. They were acting a little strange.

"I don't know what sort of something!" Jehan exclaimed, " I can't tell! I'm being foolish—don't listen to me. I've become as paranoid as Robespierre, I think everyone is plotting. I just can't _help_ thinking that _perhaps_ they're up to something!" Combeferre closed his eyes. It wouldn't be unthinkable. The A. were untrustworthy—even hot-blooded Bahorel, who was always ready for a skirmish or a revolt, even on the flimsiest pretext, found them too pugnacious. And they were not exactly subtle. It would be just like them to plot some sort of riot, and then spend the evening looking like they were plotting some sort of riot.

"We should tell Enjolras." Joly said.

"Must we?" Courfeyrac said, turning on his charm, "Enjolras has met a rather charming girl—I'd hate to make him think of business when he's finally allowed himself to succumb. And as Jehan said himself, it's probably nothing."

"Not everything is nothing!" Combeferre fired back, trying to put a number on how many times he had said that to Courfeyrac.

"It probably is nothing, Combeferre." Joly added.

"But there's no harm in telling Enjolras our suspicions." Feuilly countered, "If they get out of hand, and there are arrests, and one of us is arrested—or even seen here—I don't want to think about the sort of trouble that could lead to."

" You think the police are on to us?" Bossuet asked.

"No, I doubt it." Feuilly said, " We cover our tracks well. But the A.B.Z don't—and they know us. I doubt they've seen us, but who wants to take risks this early in the game? I'd rather be safe than sorry."

They continued to argue, and Combeferre continued to think. The A.B.Z were ridiculous, but they weren't exactly anything worth worrying about. Nevertheless…

"We have to tell Enjolras. He has just as much a right to know as the rest of us." Combeferre pronounced.

"But the rest of us can file it away in our minds and enjoy the rest of our evening—Enjolras will obsess, even _if_ he thinks it's nothing to be concerned about." Courfeyrac whined.

"I agree with Combeferre;" Feuilly chimed in, " He has a right to know. If he obsesses, let him obsess."

"He's staring at us any way." Bossuet pointed out. The men turned. Enjolras was indeed studying them with the detached interest that was characteristic of him. It spoke to the degree of trust he had in them that he waited for them to inform him of why they were huddled together. He assumed if his lieutenants were discussing politics, he would be told, and if his friends were discussing the legs of a certain ballet dancer, he would be left out of the discussion. Combeferre sighed.

"He trusts us. We have to tell him."

"Yes, all right." Courfeyrac said, and motioned Enjolras to join their discussion. Enjolras stopped only to excuse himself to Françoise—who was still talking at him, not realizing he had long since forgotten she existed.

"Is something wrong?" Enjolras asked.

"Enjolras, you do remember the A.B.Z. fellows, don't you?" Joly asked. Combeferre smiled to himself as he watched Enjolras seemingly forget the rest of the world existed. His entire being was given over to studying, his entire mind preoccupied with the thoughts of the safety and security of the revolution. That was the way Combeferre liked to see him. Enjolras; the chief, the general, the priest of the republic. He only looked truly alive then. He only looked truly happy then. It was easy to mistake Enjolras' cold, detached demeanor for disinterest or apathy. It was easy to dismiss him as soulless, antisocial or even simply boring, if you had never seen him when he was caught in the throes of his passion for the republic. That was truly Enjolras—why had Combeferre thought he was incomplete without a woman? He had his woman—Marianne.


	7. Chapter 7

As the others continued discussing, Combeferre found his attention wandering to a half whispered discussion he could just about overhear.

"Do you hear me? Stay away from him. There are other men here tonight—you don't have to try for the one _I've_ set my sights on." That was from Francoise.

"You came here with the little one." That was from Charlotte.

"Jehan knows there's nothing serious between us."

"You've better luck with him than with Enjolras. He doesn't like you." That was also from Charlotte, a bit braver now.

"He'd like me better if you weren't poking your nose where it doesn't belong. Listen to me, there's no reason we two should have to go after the same man. It'll only end it heartbreak for one of us. What about that brown haired one, with the glasses? He's nice enough." Combeferre jumped. He was the only one who wore glasses; she had to be referring to him.

" All you're doing is frightening Enjolras; it's terribly obvious he doesn't like you. Don't break your Jehan's heart." Francoise let out a wordless exclamation of frustration, and the argument continued.

Combeferre let him mind return to the more pressing matter. Enjolras and Feuilly were trying desperately to remember everything they had ever known about the A.B.Z. and cursing Bahorel for not being there. Jehan was desperately trying to explain why the men's behavior was suspicious, oblivious to the fact that everyone agreed with him on that point.

"If they're plotting something," Enjolras said, " Which they certainly look like they are, we have to stay far away."

"I suppose." Courfeyrac said, with a sigh.

"Cheer up," Joly chimed in " They aren't brave enough to start a riot themselves."

"It's not bravery I worry about;" Enjolras said, his eyes never leaving the group of well-dressed men, " It's stupidity. The A.B.Z walk the very fine line where those two qualities meet."

" Well, the least we can do is not act suspicious either!" Courfeyrac exclaimed, " We must look a sight, huddled around like this, and the overture hasn't even started! What's the delay?" Without a word, the men returned to their seats, only Jehan looking a little jumpy. They excused Jehan much due to his youth—and the fact he was utterly formidable when the occasion called for it.

Enjolras, on the other hand, was distracted, disconnected, and in no mood to deal with Francoise—so of course she just tried harder, and unfortunately, so did Charlotte. Combeferre could see Enjolras thinking. It was almost like watching a clock tick; even though you couldn't see the gears, you knew they were making the clock move. He was handling himself rather well, Combeferre thought; he was responding to both women with his usual cold politeness. He didn't look frightened, he didn't look nervous-he didn't look like he was even inhabiting the same universe, either, but that was beside the point. Then, from nowhere, the overture began. Well, that was something. Surely once the opera started everyone would calm down, and there would be nothing further to worry about except whether this Rossini had written another hit. Until Françoise said nine words that made Combeferre want to jump off the balcony.

" M'sieur Enjolras," she said flirtatiously, and not knowing what she was up against, "Which of us do you like better?" Enjolras froze. He looked like a bird suddenly shot out of flight.

"Excuse me?" he stuttered.

"Oh, Françoise, really!" Charlotte exclaimed. She turned bright red and hid her face in her shawl. Enjolras, brought cruelly back to Earth cast his eyes from one woman to the other, then stared straight ahead at the stage.

" You don't have to answer, Enjolras, really, Françoise is being ridiculous." Charlotte said, looking thoroughly mortified

" Not at all!" Françoise returned. " I'm just curious—since obviously Mam'selle Charlotte and I have reached an impasse."

"Oh, honestly!" Charlotte exclaimed, her head still in her shawl.

It was that moment Angelique, of all people, chose to interfere. She, of course, was in on the plan, Combeferre reminded himself, and had probably been observing Enjolras the whole time. With a look that reminded Combeferre of a pickpocket eyeing a wealthy gentleman, she directed Courfeyrac's attention to the frozen Enjolras, mortified Charlotte and—dear god!—still talking Françoise.

"That's not good." Courfeyrac whispered. Combeferre, not caring what he looked like, rushed out of his seat.

" What do we do?" he hissed in Courfeyrac's ear. " I know that look. That's the look he gets when he gets letters from his father."

"Get that girl away from him, that's what we do!" Courfeyrac returned. " She's completely ruining his chances with Charlotte!" One track mind, Combeferre thought.

"How?" Combeferre asked.

"Don't hate me for this." Courfeyrac whispered, and before Combeferre could protest, he was pulling on Jehan's sleeve.

Jehan had long since calmed down. He grinned widely.

"Do you like the overture?" he said good-naturedly. Courfeyrac grimaced.

"Ah…have you seen Françoise?" he said feebly. Jehan, apparently had not, because when he caught sight of his mistress flirting with Enjolras, his good humor disappeared.

"Oh, Enjolras!" he wailed, his face contorting into a theatrical mask of pain. Enjolras whipped around at the sound of his name, still looking startled.

"I know it isn't your fault, but do you always _have_ to steal all the women from us!"

"Steal…women…Jehan?" Enjolras stuttered feebly.

" Oh, I know you aren't trying, and that you don't even _care_ but it _always_ happens when you're around. They get one look at you and—oh, Françoise!" He looked on the verge of tears again. Enjolras got up without a word of excuse and reached out to Jehan, touching him on the arm. He said nothing, but shook his head. The meaning was clear. Jehan still looked on the verge of tears. Combeferre made a move to say something, a word of comfort, explanation, a joke to lighten the mood, when Musichetta had to interfere.

"Jehan, what's wrong?" she said kindly. She looked at Jehan, looked at Enjolras, back to Jehan, at Françoise, and figured it out. Why were women so quick to figure out the wrong things?

"Well then, Enjolras, look what you've done." She said sternly, her hands on her hips, " You've gone and upset the poor thing!"

"Upset him?" Enjolras said. He was shocked again.

" Don't you know a man should stay away from his friend's mistress? Especially when it's someone as kind and sensitive as Jehan."

"Ah, Musichetta, I don't think—" Bossuet cut in, realizing where this could go.

"No, Lesgle, don't defend him; he's in the wrong, and we both know it." Musichetta corrected sternly.

" Musichetta, Enjolras isn't exactly—" Joly attempted, but Musichetta didn't dignify him with a response. She placed her hand on her hip and continued to lecture.

" Now _just_ because Françoise has veritably thrown herself at you—"

"I have not thrown myself at him, Musichetta!" Françoise interrupted, now putting her hands on her hips.

"No, certainly not." Musichetta said sarcastically, " Just as you do not throw yourself at every handsome student who comes along." Françoise got up from her seat.

"I don't like the sound of that, Musichetta. Especially coming from one who is carrying on with two men." Now Joly and Bossuet looked humiliated.

"We aren't—" Joly began, "That is to say—" Bossuet added, "It's not quite as simple as that—"

"I am not!" Musichetta retorted, cutting off the stammering men.

"Then which one is it?" Courfeyrac cut in, curiosity trumping tact.

Musichetta, apparently, rather than paint herself into a corner, turned to comforting Jehan.

"Now, Jehan, really, you don't have to be so sensitive to everything. We all know Françoise is a charming girl—allegedly—but you're really making quite a spectacle." Combeferre put his head in his hands. Jehan was going to begin crying at any moment, he could sense it.

" I am not making a spectacle!" Jehan moaned theatrically. " Oh, frailty, thy name is woman!" he thundered at the top of his lungs, causing a few men in the row ahead of them to turn around.

"Hey, quiet back there." One said.

"Yes, quiet—that's your solution to everything, isn't it, you complacent bourgeois!" Jehan said, the sob still in his voice.

"Excuse me?" the man said, turning around again.

"You heard me." Jehan retorted, " You bourgeois could watch a man being stabbed to death in the streets and all you'd say is 'quiet, you'll wake the baby.'"

"Bravo, Jehan!" Courfeyrac said, clapping uproariously.

" You foolish men could watch the government slowly eradicate before your eyes, the Rights of Man being taken away, and all you ever do is moan for peace and complicity—so everyone is just _quiet_!"

"Up the rebels!" Someone shouted. Combeferre looked up. That didn't sound good.

" And when someone dares to make a noise—whether it's through art or newspapers or revolution, you just say 'they're disturbing the peace.' As if the only thing we should aspire to is peace—under a dictatorship!"

"Um…Everyone? Can you listen to me for a moment?" That was from Feuilly, who was looking at something in the distance, but it was ignored.

" A dictatorship!" the bourgeois Jehan was addressing stood up slowly. He was six feet tall if he was an inch. "I didn't hear that."

"I think that's quite enough, Jehan." Combeferre said. Something was going on a few rows down, as well. There was shouting.

"Jehan, perhaps you should sit down." Musichetta said, trying to pull the young boy back into his seat, but Jehan wrenched his sleeve out of her hand. He drew himself up to his full height—which wasn't much.

"Then I'll say it louder—the king is a dictator! The king is a dictator! The king is a— " The bourgeois swung. Jehan fell back, hit in the stomach. Musichetta let out a little scream and caught the spluttering poet. Courfeyrac, without a moment's hesitation, returned the punch, but the bourgeois dodged it and—oh, that was perfect—a companion of his was hit in the arm.

Enjolras seemed to wake up. He had been staring at something only he could see during Jehan's diatribe, but the sound of attacks had returned him to the world of men. He crouched down next to Jehan.

"Are you all right?" he asked. Jehan, still out of breath, nodded.

"Got the—got the wind knocked out of me. Worth it, though." He said, with a smile.

"Excuse me? Everyone?" Feuilly said again, a bit more urgently, but no one even seemed to hear him. Courfeyrac, Joly and Bossuet had joined the fight, and Bossuet was already bleeding. Combeferre crawled along the floor, dodging blows and kicks. It seemed like people they didn't even know were joining in, on one side or the other.

"Enjolras," Combeferre shouted, trying to be heard over the overture—which had swelled to a climax—and the sounds of the fight, " I think we should go. The women are terrified, and we're drawing attention." Feuilly, obviously sick of shouting at no one, crouched down on the floor as well.

"Not only that," he said, "Look!" Enjolras, Combeferre and Jehan peaked above the chairs. Sure enough, down the aisle came the A.B.Z., Charles, their leader at the head, all shouting 'vive la revolution,' and more troublingly 'á bas le roi!'

"This is bad." Combeferre commented, stating the obvious.

"That's what I was trying to _tell_ you!" Feuilly exclaimed, "They saw Jehan and the other one fighting almost immediately. Whatever they were plotting—if anything—they decided it would be more fun to turn a disagreement into a riot."

"And now they're on their way up here—" Combeferre said, pinching the bridge of his nose, " 'To stand with their brothers in solidarity!' That's _just_ what we need." A scream was heard from one of the women. Charlotte, frozen in shock, had been pushed out of the way by one of the A.B.Z, eager to join the fight.

"All right, that's the last straw." Feuilly said, trying to push the men in front of him towards the aisle, " We're getting out of here."

"Must we?" Jehan cut in, surveying his handiwork with some satisfaction.

"Yes, we must." Combeferre said sternly. " We cannot afford to get involved in a riot, nonetheless start one." Jehan blushed. Back to shy.

"I'm sorry, Combeferre, I didn't mean to—"

"Yes, there's time for that later. Let's go." Enjolras said, taking charge. Unfortunately, the only way out of the growing riot was and undignified crawl under it. But sometimes, Combeferre thought, one must stoop to conquer.

"Where's Musichetta?" Jehan was heard to whisper as they made their way out of the tunnel of bodies to the aisle.

"I'm here!" she said, crawling a little behind him, her skirts somewhat impeding her movement.

"Where are the women?" Enjolras asked, as they found something resembling safety in an empty row. No sooner had he said it that Feuilly appeared, leading Angelique by the hand, followed closely by Françoise, who had lost her feathers somehow. " And Charlotte?" Combeferre surveyed the riot. He had seen her pushed to the ground a few minutes previous, but now she seemed to have disappeared.

"I'll find her." Jehan volunteered.

"Be careful." Enjolras ordered, " And if you see the others, tell them we'll meet them at the Musain, but don't waste time." Jehan nodded his obedience and returned to the fray.

"Is anyone injured?" Combeferre asked, his medical training taking over.

" We're fine, Combeferre." Angelique said, though she sounded terrified. And why shouldn't she be? The fight had turned into a veritable riot—the A.B.Z. had seen to that. What had started between two men now seemed to involve half the balcony.

"Mindless fighting machines," Combeferre heard Enjolras grumble, echoing his thoughts exactly. " This will be all over the papers tomorrow. We won't be able to even think of getting anything done for a month."

"Enjolras!" Someone shouted. One of the A.B.Z. was waving wildly. Combeferre didn't recognize him, but apparently, the man knew them. Enjolras wisely pretended not to notice him, but the rebel couldn't take the hint. "Enjolras, we thought you'd be here! Come and join us, mate! Don't you want to fight for the people?" Enjolras continued staring off. He would not acknowledge the man. Anonymity was the first rule of revolution. "Enjolras, come on! We all know you want to!" The man was now coming towards them. Enjolras turned away. Through the chaos, Jehan appeared, followed closely behind by Charlotte and Courfeyrac. Joly and Bossuet were nowhere to be found. Jehan looked around, not seeming to see them.

"Jehan!" Combeferre called to him.

"What?" the A.B.Z. said. Combeferre started. Well, apparently, it was a common name.

The intended Jehan looked up and found them, leading the terrified Charlotte.

"Come on, you two, don't run away! You started all this, didn't you?" The A.B.Z. said, standing in front of Jehan and Courfeyrac.

"Oh, just leave me _alone_!" Jehan exclaimed, sounding thoroughly humiliated, and pushed the man, who was knocked back over two rows of seats.

"Great job, Jehan—you've killed him!" Courfeyrac exclaimed. Jehan let out a noise almost like a scream. "I'm joking—he's fine." Courfeyrac amended as the other Jehan got up, brushed himself off, and returned to the riot. "It was a nasty fall, though!"

"Where are Joly and Bossuet?" Enjolras asked, unable to suppress a smile.

" I saw them, they're trying to get out too. But Joly said it would be better if we all didn't leave at once. He said they'd meet us at the Musain later."

"That's fine." Enjolras agreed.

"Can we go?" Feuilly said.

"I've been wanting to since we got here." Combeferre said, and began leading the way.

They fought their way to the back of the balcony—where almost no one had gone down to the riot. In the darkened theater, one could barely see it. In fact, from a higher vantage point, it seemed a lot smaller. It probably would resolve itself and the rest of the performance would go on without a hitch.

And then the police appeared. Four officers, summoned who-knows-how, were making their way down the balcony.

"Run." Enjolras whispered, and the command was followed by all, as the orchestra swelled to its climax. Combeferre noticed Jehan stopping for a split second as they tore down the stares.

"What's wrong?" Combeferre asked.

"Nothing." Jehan said, " It's just rather good music, isn't it?"

"It would have been a wonderful opera." Courfeyrac agreed with a sigh.

"Move!" Musichetta exclaimed, trapped behind them.

They moved. They ran. Perhaps it was the affect of the music, which suited an escape quite well. Perhaps it was the fact that no one wanted to be anywhere near the police. Perhaps it was because Combeferre was at the head, and all he wanted to do was get out of there, and forget this disastrous night had ever happened.


	8. Chapter 8

Finally, after an eternity, they sprung out of the doors and collapsed on the opera steps.

"Is everyone here?" Feuilly asked, as they regained their breath. Combeferre did a quick head count. The only ones missing were Joly and Bossuet, who had been accounted for.

Then the sound of sobbing was heard. Charlotte was sitting on the steps, her shawl missing, crying.

"Charlotte? Are you all right?" Combeferre asked. Charlotte lifted her head to reveal a large bruise on her cheek. "Let me see it," he said with a smile. Combeferre knelt down and examined her cheek. She must have gotten it when she was pushed to the floor. "It's all right, just a bruise. It isn't even bleeding. It'll heal on its own." Charlotte nodded.

" And I tripped the man who gave it to me, too." She said proudly through her tears. " I'm not crying about the bruise. I'm just frightened—that's all. I've never seen anything like that." Combeferre gave her a reassuring smile.

"That's good. It was nothing to worry about, Charlotte—just a little fight." Charlotte nodded and wiped her tears away with the back of her hand, "Is anyone else injured? Jehan, are you breathing all right?" Jehan nodded. Courfeyrac smiled sheepishly.

"Just a few bruises." He said. " The usual."

"Other than a ripped dress," Musichetta said, "I'm fine. And look, Françoise, you lost your feathers!"

"Did I?" Françoise said, patting her hair nervously, " Oh, well. I didn't like those any way. Wasn't that exciting! I'm sure it was much better than the opera would have ever been!"

"Yes, exciting." Angelique said sarcastically. She was clinging to Courfeyrac's arm. "I am never going anywhere with you all again!"

"Angelique, you know you don't mean that." Courfeyrac said, giving her his prettiest smile.

"Well, perhaps I'll make an exception for you." She admitted.

"It was rather exciting, wasn't it?" Jehan said wistfully. " That was the first riot I've ever seen! My only regret is I didn't get to shed blood in the name of the republic."

"You started the whole thing, Jehan, be happy with that." Feuilly admonished, though he too, looked almost proud. Jehan blushed.

"Well, one can't have everything." He said. " Still, it was a victory of sorts. A.B.Z. aside, look how many men joined in on our side! Almost no one defended the king when I said he was a dictator. That must mean something."

"In a roundabout way, yes, it does." Combeferre agreed, cleaning his glasses thoughtfully, " It means that at least some of those who believe as we do are not frightened of fighting in the name of our cause. I'm rather glad that happened, somehow. It shows we can depend on the people to be incensed when the time comes."

"What are you all talking about?" Françoise squawked.

"Nothing." Courfeyrac said. He clapped his hands decisively, " Well, as we have all had a very full night, I suggest we all go our separate ways. I will take Angelique home."

"Yes, I think that would be wise." Combeferre said, " And perhaps we should not meet for a few days. A week perhaps. Just to be sure."

"That sounds like a good idea." Feuilly agreed. " Jehan, shall we go?"

"As soon as I've gotten my breath." Jehan said, " This time, I swear, I am never running again! I've had enough running in one night to last me a lifetime!"

"I'll come with you." Françoise cut in.

"Ah—perhaps you should come with me, Françoise." Musichetta said, "You and I go the same way. We'll walk together, it isn't so late."

"All right, so we'll all meet at the Musain in a week." Combeferre said, and turned to go, before he remembered Charlotte, still sitting on the steps. "Charlotte? How are you getting home?" he asked, turning to her. He found, to his surprise, Enjolras of all people sitting next to her.

"Enjolras?" Combeferre said, unable to believe his eyes.

"I'm sorry you had to see that, citoyenne." Enjolras was saying quietly to Charlotte. The girl had stopped crying and was looking at him almost reverently. " Jehan is not usually like that, and the rest of us don't pick fights for the sake of it. Whoever had the disrespect and disregard to push you aside was no friend of ours, and no friend of the republic. Please do not judge us by our actions tonight. We are better men than that." Charlotte nodded slowly.

"Ah, Enjolras," Courfeyrac said, a huge grin on his face, " Perhaps you should walk Mademoiselle Charlotte home?" Enjolras got up.

"I would—but I must meet Joly and Bossuet at the Musain. Combeferre, perhaps you could…"

"I will walk her home." Combeferre agreed. Courfeyrac gave him a look that could burn toast, but Combeferre had sworn off playing matchmaker forever.

"Very well." Enjolras said. " Then I'll see you at home, later, Combeferre." He turned to Charlotte and held out a hand to help her up. " It was nice meeting you, Citoyenne Gautier." Charlotte smile and blushed beet red as she put her hand in his.

"Very nice meeting you as well." She responded. Enjolras smiled at her and left for the Musain. The others bid each other good night and went their separate ways, until only Combeferre and Courfeyrac were left. Angelique was talking inaudibly to Charlotte—most likely about Enjolras.

"Well, did you see that?" Courfeyrac whispered when they were alone.

"Yes." Combeferre agreed. "He left. He has no more interest in her than in any other woman."

"But he—he called her 'citoyenne!' He only does that with people he likes-it's like using 'tu' for him. That must mean something!"

"Perhaps it means he is a bit fond of her." Combeferre admitted, "But we know him. He will never see her again. Enjolras just isn't the type, Courfeyrac."

"But you must admit, if it would have been anyone, it would have been her."

"I admit she came closer than any other woman." Combeferre said, " But that isn't saying much."

"But there was _something_ there!"

"Almost nothing."

"Oh, perhaps you're right." Courfeyrac finally admitted. " He's hopeless. But at least he proved to us that he isn't _afraid_ of women. I mean, if he could deal with Françoise, he could deal with anyone." Combeferre laughed.

"Yes, you're right."

"Of course I'm right! But you know something, Combeferre; I just can't get the thought out of my head that he might have known her from somewhere. I mean, perhaps that explains it—he was kinder to her because he remembers her?"

"Perhaps." Combeferre said, suddenly remembering that. " I will ask him about it later. It can't do any harm." Angelique and Charlotte, obviously through with their discussion and tired of waiting, came up to them.

"Can we go?" Angelique said, linking her arm through Courfeyrac's.

"Yes, I think we should." Courfeyrac said with a devilish grin. " Good night, Combeferre, Charlotte."

"Good night," Combeferre returned, " Come on, citoyenne," he said to Charlotte, " I'll walk you home."


	9. Epilogue

_Epilogue_

There was a knock at Combeferre's door early the next morning. There was only one person it could have been.

"Good morning, Enjolras." Combeferre said, before the door was even fully opened. " Every thing all right?"

"Fine, my friend." Enjolras said, and seated himself at Combeferre's table. Their flats were in the same building, so Enjolras had apparently decided it was not a risk to speak to him. "Joly and Bossuet arrived shortly after I did at the Musain. They were both unharmed and reported that even though the police had arrived, no arrests were made. They took a few statements from the witnesses, all of whom—according to Bossuet—said the fight had started between two men over a woman, and simply, to quote 'got out of hand.'" Combeferre smiled.

" Well, that's almost the truth. It did, in a way, start over a woman. If Jehan hadn't been upset at you for stealing his woman, he wouldn't have taken his anger out on those men." Enjolras looked away.

"You do know I had no intention of—"

"Of course you didn't." Combeferre said, " Jehan knew as well. You are aware of your looks, and so are we. We're all more or less used to women seeing you and falling in love on the spot, but we also know that you have no interest in any of them. Really, I'd trust my mistress around you more than, say, Courfeyrac." The name caused an unintentional stab of guilt.

" Enjolras, I have a bit of a confession to make." Combeferre said, changing his tone. Enjolras raised his eyebrows, but said nothing. " Courfeyrac and I planned the whole thing, last night. Well, not all of it—not Jehan and Françoise and the others showing up. That just happened. But Courfeyrac and I thought that perhaps if we found you a sweet enough girl, you would fall in love, and wouldn't be afraid of women any more." Enjolras shook his head, but he was smiling.

"Yes, I suspected something like that. Really, though, I didn't think you were in on it, I thought it was all Courfeyrac's doing."

"You knew?" Combeferre exclaimed in shock.

"Knew? No, I wouldn't say that. I just had the slightest suspicion. Courfeyrac, after all, was acting a bit jumpy, shall we say? Besides, no one could truly believe that he just _happened_ to run into an old mistress and her available friend."

"No I suppose not." Combeferre said, laughing in spite of himself. " Charlotte said something similar. She never expected you to fall for it. She really was fond of you, though, Enjolras."

"Charlotte was a very sweet girl." He said long-sufferingly. " But you know that I simply haven't the time."

"Is that really the reason, Enjolras?" Combeferre said, clasping his friend's hand, " You can tell me the truth." Enjolras sighed.

"Combeferre, I've dedicated my life to the pursuit of liberty for France. I know that one day, I will be called on to lay down my life for her. I would not want, when that time comes, to leave any woman behind to miss me and cry for me when I'm gone. I could not do that to any woman."

"Yes, of course." Combeferre said, feeling foolish, " the simplest explanation is usually the best. You know, that reminds me. I don't know if I'm seeing things that aren't there, but I could have sworn that Charlotte recognized you from somewhere, and you did the same. Did you two know each other?" Enjolras looked quizzical.

"No, I've never seen her before in my life." He said.

"Are you sure? Charlotte is from Cahors, as we are. Are you certain you didn't know her? Or perhaps in Paris? You came here a full six months before I did, you could have."

"No, Combeferre, I've never met her before. But how did you know where she was from?"

"She told me when I was walking her home last night." It was Combeferre's turn to look away. "I couldn't get up the nerve to ask her if she knew you—it seemed like such a strange question. But we had such an interesting conversation last night—she's really quite intelligent, once she calmed down—we agreed to see each other again. I promised to call on her within the week." Enjolras nodded soberly.

"She will be good for you. She's a sweet girl."

"But you're certain you never knew her?" Combeferre broke in quickly.

"Yes, Combeferre, and I have no interest in her now, even if I did. If I had known her from somewhere, I would have remembered her name."

"Yes—her name." Combeferre said, remembering something "You said you knew a Charlotte once. Are you sure it is not the same one?" Enjolras laughed.

"Very sure." He said, almost to himself.

"Then who was the other Charlotte? There weren't any Charlottes in Cahors, I don't think. Did you meet the other in Paris?" Enjolras suddenly became fascinated by the pattern of wood in the table.

"Well, perhaps I was speaking a bit metaphorically when I said that. I never, I admit, knew her. She died quite a while before I was born. But, sometimes, I feel like I did. It was Charlotte Corday I was thinking of when I said that."

"Charlotte Corday?" Combeferre asked, incredibly confused. " The assassin of Jean-Paul Marat? But you idolize the man! You are always talking about the power he had through his newspaper, how he could inflame the masses with words. Why would you be fond of his assassin?"

"Combeferre," Enjolras said, as if explaining himself to a child, " I am not so blinded by the light the man shed that I cannot see where he went wrong. He became blood thirsty, paranoid. He was demanding the deaths of those who did not deserve it. He dishonored the republic. If Citoyenne Corday had not killed him, perhaps more would have been massacred during the Terror. The men of the Convention were good men who wanted the best for France, but they did horrors in her name. The new republic must stand on the shoulders of '93, but we must not duplicate it.

" Citoyenne Corday was willing to give her life to save the republic from becoming a bloodthirsty dictatorship. She is a personification of the justice of the people—the sort of justice that overrides even the government. She rose up—alone—and did what had to be done to protect the people of France, which the government at the time was not doing. Though, naturally, I do not support the murder of anyone, sometimes one must make that sacrifice in the name of a greater good. I have always been fond of her." Combeferre nodded.

"Yes, I have always been fond of her as well—in a way." Thoughts were spinning in Combeferre's head, " Then why did Charlotte act like she knew you?" Enjolras looked quizzical.

" I don't think she did; I got no impression she might have known me."

"Then perhaps Courfeyrac was right, and she was just making conversation." Combeferre said, shaking his head" Once again, I must remind myself the simplest solution is often the best. She was in on our plan; she got a look at you, and as all women, felt like she was in the presence of a marble Antinous. She didn't know what else to say. I must apologize for the way I acted last night. I feel like I had taken leave of my senses."

"No harm done." Enjolras said, with a shrug.

"This will all be a bit of a disappointment for Courfeyrac, though; I don't believe he's given up on you."

"Courfeyrac will give up finding me a woman," Enjolras said, his smile growing, " The day he gives them up himself."

"Yes, probably." They were quiet.

"Enjolras," Combeferre began, "I don't want to push the issue, but…are you quite certain about Charlotte? Or any woman?" Enjolras folded his hands on the table decisively.

"I am quite, quite sure. I'm aware of what you all say about me; that I am missing out, or it's unhealthy, and I understand, to an extent, why you think that. But, as you once said, ' I love my mother more, hélas, I love my mother more.'" Combeferre smiled. He was very fond of that little song.

"Well then, come on, my friend," Combeferre said, getting up from the table, " We have work to do and not a lot of time to do it in. The pamphlets have to be sent to the printer, Feuilly told me that some of the workers have reported a theft of gunpowder, which needs to be investigated and possibly replaced, and I promised myself that I'd finish my paper for class.

"Mlle. Patria" Enjolras said, getting up after him, " Is not an easy mistress."

"Yes," Combeferre agreed, " But we wouldn't trade her for the world."


End file.
